


The Grotesque Animal

by werelupewoods



Category: Neopets
Genre: //slaps the desk// this IS CANON NOW I DECLARE IT blease... it's necessary... my poor heart..., M/M, idk but hey jammy have i ever told u i h9 u
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werelupewoods/pseuds/werelupewoods
Summary: " “It’s something to do with the baby, isn’t it?”Shimon tenses visibly, but otherwise doesn’t shift.And Oliver isn’t sure what to say. "Just a little thing in response to Jammy's story "The Talk," all about babies and pasts and sad stuff and such.





	The Grotesque Animal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jammy/gifts).



> //bangs pots and pans together// THIS IS ALL JAMMY'S FAULT!!
> 
> gOD, okay, so... yeah, this is a direct response to Jammy's last work, "The Talk," which I absolutely loved and reread like seventeen times, but _also_ got me thinking, like, wayyy too much about what Shimon's thoughts on the whole ordeal would be.
> 
> I know I haven't gone into Shimon's past a lot — if at all — before, but... well, there's a first time for everything, right?
> 
> Anyway, prepare for some emotions, y'all.
> 
> Oh, and Ollie belongs to Jammy ofc!!

Oliver isn’t sure what to say.

The first time that he and Shimon had found themselves sitting alone in an _actual_ room together, Oliver, retrospectively embarrassingly, had panicked when — can you believe it? — Shimon actually shut the fuck up for once. That night, they had just come back from a painfully long few weeks scouring some barren land for a creature that nobody was sure even existed — surprise! It did — and finally returned to the inn that Shimon, oddly enough, calls home. It’s such a clear memory in Oliver’s mind, because it was the first time the two of them had ever been in that sort of company: they had returned to Shimon’s room — one of the luxury cottages in the back of the Golden Gallion property — taken off their coats, sat down with long sighs of collective exhaustion, shared a few quips and snipes, and then...

Silence.

And Oliver had panicked.

The _is-something-wrong_ s and _is-something-on-your-mind_ s had immediately spilled out of Oliver’s mouth, and he wasn’t sure if he was more pissed or relieved when Shimon had answered to them with a genuine, devilish smile and a laughed-out, “What, am I not giving you enough attention, _vas izbalovannyy shchenok?_ ”

Well, turns out that Shimon gets silent when he’s very, very comfortable — sleepy-eyed while breathing deep, smiling just the slightest bit, or sometimes even just staring blankly at the ceiling or walls. It took Oliver a while to get used to it — this seemingly backwards behaviour — but, eventually, he started being able to recognise it — able to recognise the air of calm that surrounds Shimon’s more solaced silences. That feeling of tranquillity. The relaxed muscles, and steady heartbeat, and slow blinking, and evenly spaced breathing...

But... that’s just the thing.

 _This_ silence is different.

And Oliver isn’t sure what to say.

In this moment, the two rest comfortably snuggled together in this still-somewhat-foreign-feeling bed in the Callahan family mansion, Oliver sitting with what, by this point, is probably a half dozen pillows propped up behind him — his back’s been killing him these past few weeks... — and Shimon lying with his head against Oliver’s chest, his hand on the younger hunter’s now incredibly large stomach, gently drawing invisible swirls into his fur.

It _would_ be an incredibly sweet moment, _if_ it wasn’t so obvious that something troubling was on Shimon’s mind.

Oliver decides to finally say something once the uneasy aura begins prickling the base of his already achy spine. He shifts slightly, leaning a bit farther back, then moves to lace his fingers with Shimon’s, looking down at the pale Gelert as if trying to match his heavily obscured eyes. Oliver breathes deep; then, “Is something on your mind?” he asks softly.

He was expecting — or, rather, _hoping_ for — some sort of snarky remark in response to the question, but...

Shimon stops his motions, and that’s it.

Okay, now Oliver is _more_ than worried.

Suddenly ten times as nervous as before, Oliver gives Shimon’s hand a gentle squeeze to try to encourage some sort of response. It’s meant as an attempt to be reassuring, but, unfortunately, the action clearly conveys his worry, and they both know it. “Liebling?”

Shimon exhales hard when he realises that there’s no way out of this — Oliver is far too perceptive to let any shift in mood slide by his senses, after all. Still, Shimon had been hoping that Oliver wouldn’t catch onto his negativity.

What a stupid thing to hope...

The room stays silent for a few nervous seconds, then Shimon finally begins to sit straight — begins trying to summon some of his typical sass from within, but finds that his core is seemingly empty. Despite the strange internal hollowness, though, he slowly sits, then flexes his arms — cracks his knuckles, his neck, and his back — and stands up, combing his fingers through his hair to detangle it just the slightest bit. “Nothing interesting,” he finally replies as he begins a quick but casual walk towards the bureau across the room where a few half-eaten plates of cakes and pastries sit. Knowing that there’s no way in hell Oliver would ever let that sit as Shimon’s sole response, the pale hunter also immediately adds a passive, “You want any more of this cake?” as he starts to pick through the small collection of desserts, simply attempting to further deter the topic.

Despite Shimon’s best efforts, Oliver ignores that second half completely. “Well,” the younger hunter begins, only half-facetiously, forcing himself to sit straighter despite the aches, “if you’ve got nothing _interesting_ on your mind, then... perhaps there is something _important_...?”

Well, apparently now it’s _Shimon’s_ turn to ignore _Oliver_. “I’m gonna eat this lemon cake if you don’t,” he says calmly, slowly rotating one of the platters to admire every angle of the cake it holds.

Oliver rolls his eyes slightly. “Go ahead,” he begins, just trying to get back to the topic he had initially broached, “bu—”

He’s interrupted when Shimon spins around to look at him with an incredibly loud — and incredibly fake — gasp. “ _Oliver Pauper Callahan_ turning down _lemon cake...?_ ” he teases, throwing a hand over his heart as if it’s about to give out from shock. His tone then turns flat — false-threatening — as he points an accusatory finger in Oliver’s direction. “Who are you and what have you done with moya malen’kiy plamya...”

Oliver forces himself not to smile at the display. “Shi, I’m serious,” he says, trying his hardest not to let his amusement show in his tone.

Shimon still doesn’t budge. “And _I_ am serious about finishing this cake,” he responds, suddenly singsong, turning back around to admire all of the fancy, half-covered platters again.

Oliver huffs slightly, frustrated that Shimon is ignoring his question despite the very clear honesty in his tone. “Shimon, _please,_ ” the Christmas Gelert half-scolds, “I don’t ha—”

He’s interrupted _again_ when Shimon tears off a piece of the lemon cake he’s been contemplating and tosses it into the air, theatrically catching it in his mouth before mumbling a mocking, “I _refuse_ to trudge back to Meridell at midnight _again_ just to sneak you some more of this fancy cake, so tell no lies, alright?”

The older hunter’s playfully passive attitude and skirting of the question at hand would probably be endearing to Oliver _if_ the Christmas Gelert wasn’t so... well, hormonal. Right now, though, he’s only getting frustrated. This is _serious_ , after all; especially since... well, it’s been going on for _days_ now.

And it has. At least a week, or two, or maybe even a month. Shimon just hasn’t had the same amount of energy as usual. Maybe it’s due to being cooped up in this mansion for so long, despite the fact that Oliver has said _many_ times that he needn’t stay each and every night; or, maybe it’s just nervousness about being in this foreign estate _in general_. Honestly, it could be a million different things that are bugging the cream-coloured Gelert — so much has been so different during these past few months, after all — but...

But Oliver is almost certain that he knows what this is really about.

And he’s in absolutely no condition to allow that subject to slide. “It’s something to do with the baby, isn’t it?”

Shimon tenses visibly, but otherwise doesn’t shift.

And Oliver isn’t sure what to say.

But that’s obviously it — it _has_ to be. That’s the topic that always triggers Shimon’s sudden silences. It’s the subject that always causes the smiles to turn forced. It’s the thought that always ends a conversation early. It’s... making Oliver an anxious wreck, honestly; because...

Well... because he isn’t sure what it means.

Because Shimon’s seemed so supportive this entire time. He never once has said anything about being upset with Oliver about his impulsive decision to drink that conception potion, or about regretting his decision to play a father’s role. He’s never voiced any anger, or regret, or negativity _at all_ regarding this whole situation. He’s been caring, and reassuring, and loving this entire time — enthusiastic, and energetic, and adorably eager, but...

But, suddenly — sometime in these last few weeks — bringing up their soon-to-be-born child has ceased inspiring smiles and started sparking silence.

Has he... changed his mind...?

No, no... he _couldn’t_ have... Oliver desperately wants to believe _anything_ but that, but...

Well, what if...

Shimon sighs.

And Oliver bites his lip.

And the stillness that settles between them is deafening.

Oliver decides that he won’t allow the hush to take too tight a hold. His heart is a lead weight, and he’s feeling his nervousness like a vise around his throat, but...

His words are soft and half-stuttered. “You can... tell me anything you need to, Shi,” he says, nervously holding his stomach, fighting the urge to look away from fear. “If something is wrong with...” — well, with what? The baby? This situation? Their entire friendship and relationship _as a whole?_ — “with _anything_ , then... then, uh...”

Shimon still hasn’t moved.

And neither has whatever force has hold on Oliver’s lungs.

_He’s changed his mind, hasn’t he..._

Oliver forces himself to swallow his nerves. He’s dying to ask the question that’s now a rampaging beast in his mind, but... “You can tell me if something is wrong, Liebling,” Oliver finally concludes, somehow managing to keep his voice from cracking.

The silence is suffocating.

So Oliver holds his breath.

And Shimon just looks farther away.

Because, honestly, something _has_ been on his mind. It has been for _weeks_. What’s even worse is that he _knows_ his internal struggle’s been obvious — Ambroise, Oliver’s parents, even Oliver’s cocky younger cousin had all asked Shimon if he was feeling alright when last they’d seen him — but...

Well, the only person who Shimon had actually voiced what he was feeling to — who Shimon knew would understand — was Ambroise. He’s the only one who could understand _why_ , after all. He’s the only one who... knows. The only one Shimon has ever told. The only one Shimon had ever _wanted_ to tell. He never, _ever_ wanted to have to recount these horrible thoughts and memories aloud ever, _ever_ again; but...

But this is important.

It really, really is.

He’s just...

“... Shimon?”

Oliver’s voice sounds weak.

But Shimon’s reply is immediate: “Have I ever told you that I once had a brother?”

Oliver manages to stop himself from saying, “What the hell does that have to do with this?” out loud, but only because — it’s the strangest thing, really — Shimon’s tone sounded genuinely pained as he asked the question rather than full of that forced sarcasm that tends to taint his tone whenever he attempts to change the topic. It’s...actually an incredibly foreign sound.

Oliver expects Shimon to continue speaking, but... he doesn’t. Right away, at least. Instead, the older hunter lowers his head slightly, folding his arms and resting his elbows on the bureau, leaning his weight against the old wooden surface. His tail’s begun to curl nervously between his legs. He’s tapping his fingers anxiously against his arm. His ears are drooping completely down beside his shoulders. He... looks like a different person entirely in this moment — shy, shaky, and nervous as hell.

Oliver can still hardly hear anything past the din of worry in his mind, but... curious now, he responds with a soft, “Um... no, you haven’t...” and hopes that Shimon explains himself.

Again, there is silence.

A long, long silence.

And when Shimon finally speaks again, his tone is so timid that he sounds almost like a stranger. “I, ah... I was thirteen when he was born,” he begins, lifting his nose upwards, his eyes searching the patterns of nothingness on the ceiling. “He looked just like our mother, honestly — like a tiny, chubby version — except... I swear on my life, he had _the_ bluest eyes I have ever seen, _ever..._ ”

Oliver would be frustrated that Shimon is still seemingly ignoring his question regarding the baby, but...

Well, this seems important, too, even if it isn’t related.

He bites his tongue, and listens close.

After a few moments of silent contemplation, Shimon snorts out a nervous laugh, shaking his head slightly, his gaze still determinedly fixed upon the ceiling. “I still don’t know where the fuck he got those eyes,” he continues, “since our mother’s eyes were brown and our father’s looked just like mine. Uh, knowing our mother, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he got them from, uh...” — he twirls his hand in the air a few times — “well, _someone else entirely,_ you know, but... but _I swear_ , Ollie, I have _never_ seen anyone else with eyes so blue...” He sighs at the thought, then shrugs lightly. “It was just a little quirk of his, I guess. It set him apart from the rest of us in that disgusting trash heap of a village — in _this entire realm_ , actually...”

Oliver continues to bite his lip as Shimon pauses in his thoughts once more, then settles a bit more comfortably against the pillows again.

Shimon lowers his gaze back to the bureau, running one finger along the edge of the lemon cake’s platter. “I _also_ still don’t know what the fuck happened to our goddamn parents,” he continues, again — as usual — laughing nervously at the thought. “They just up and disa-fucking-ppeared one night, leaving little fourteen-year-old me in charge of an almost-toddler with nothing to my name but some sorry excuse of a house and a pathetic enough expression to be able to successfully beg for food.” He breathes deep, then exhales long, again shaking his head. He’s still smiling despite all of this, though it’s obvious that the expression is empty and dead — a nervous reflex, and nothing more. “The local apothecary was kind enough — or, well, felt sorry enough — to take me on as sort of an apprentice despite my age. I had always been fascinated with local flora, after all, though... well, uh, that’s beside the point...” He bats a hand in the air, as if to brush that thought away altogether. “The point is,” he continues, “I managed to keep us alive doing work at the shop, and that’s all that mattered.”

Pause.

Oliver crosses his arms nervously. He... thinks he knows where this may be going now...

Again, Shimon takes the deepest breath he can, then exhales long and soft. In some vain attempt to shift the mood, he attempts to crack a joke to begin his next thought: “I don’t know shit about raising kids,” he says, “but... I had to figure it out at the, uh...” — he makes a fist and gives a sarcastically upbeat swing of his arm — “the _ripe ol’ age_ of fourteen.” Again, he shakes his head, this time rolling his eyes with the motion. He sighs. “Miraculously, it didn’t turn out too terrible. Honestly, Ollie, I was probably smarter at age fourteen than I am today.”

Oliver exhales a half-a-laugh at the comment — which, thankfully, causes Shimon to untense visibly — but then simply continues to listen rather than snipe back.

Shimon’s completely shifted his gaze back to the bureau’s top now, though he seems almost like he’s looking _through_ the furniture rather than _at_ it. His every motion stops. His words grow soft. “It was...” Pause. “It was _fun_ , honestly,” he says, his tone turning just a touch more positive — his smile just the slightest bit more genuine. “Being a ‘parent’ of sorts, you know. I would, uh... I would read my brother faerietales — doing all the silly voices, of course — making him laugh as best I could while still teaching him how to read — oh, he was _so_ smart; he learned all of his letters and how to put sounds together _so_ fast... And then I, ah... I also taught him all the different colours we could see around town, and how to count, and... and we would draw pictures together, and make up stories back and forth — he learned to speak _so_ quickly, and _so_ eloquently for his age...” Shimon suddenly turns and half-points an accusatory finger in Oliver’s direction. “ _You_ like to tease me for letting my mouth run, but, honestly, I think it was _beneficial_ back then,” he says. “I’m sticking to the story that Kay learned to speak because _I_ never _stopped_.”

Again, Oliver laughs just the slightest bit under his breath. He would probably laugh louder and make some sort of comeback if he wasn’t dreading so much where exactly this story is going.

And it looks like it’s going.

And it’s getting there...

One more time, silence falls over them like a heavy blanket, though not at all comforting beneath its pressure. With a few still only half-sincere snickers, Shimon returns to his last position — arms crossed and resting on the bureau’s top, eyes looking down into nothingness — then his posture softens until he looks... frightened, almost. Or something incredibly akin to that.

Inhale, exhale; then... “He, um.” Pause. Shimon shifts his weight. “He was... five, almost six years old when, um...” Another pause. He doesn’t want to say it. He backtracks. “Gods, he was _so_ smart for a five-year-old... I swear, I don’t know _where_ he got it, cus it sure as hell wasn’t all from _my_ dumb ass...” Pause. “But, um...” Another pause. “It was...”

Oliver is _positive_ he knows where this is going, and _also_ positive that Shimon would rather be talking about literally _anything_ other than this in this moment. The Christmas Gelert half-considers stopping Shimon from finishing his story, insisting that he needn’t since it’s obviously so painful, but...

But Shimon forces himself to just say it. “When he was almost six years old, we were attacked,” he nearly spits, and his shoulders heave once the words have left his mouth.

Oliver finally allows himself to look down.

Shimon’s next breath is shaky. “I don’t...” Then he laughs — manically, almost, like he always does when he’s uncomfortable... or furious... — “I don’t know _why_ the fuck it was _us_ ,” he continues, his volume suddenly starting to climb, “but it was _just. Us._ Those fucking _beasts_ attacked _us_ , and I wanted _so fucking badly_ to stop them, but... fuck, what the fuck was I supposed to do? What goddamn chance did I — this useless, pathetic, waste-of-space teenage fuckup — stand against a pack of fucking _Werelupes?_ ” He throws one hand outward in no particular direction as he says this. The gesture is just as aggressive as his words. “The answer is, _none_ , of course,” he then says, his pitch, too, also climbing.

Shimon’s words only continue to crescendo as he keeps talking — he honestly can’t stop anymore. “God, it must have been a sight to behold, seeing me trying my damnedest to shoo those monsters away like common pests, because _gods_ know I was too stupid and useless to think of anything _useful_ to do — I panicked! I panicked, and like a _stupid_ child I just _let it happen!_ I let them take him, and all I did was beg — like that would help, can you believe? I did _nothing_ but scream and cry and chase them as far into the swamp as I could before I collapsed into the muck like a fucking stomped Slorg — I just... just...”

Shimon’s balled his hands into fists now, his expression tight and his arms shaking. He lifts one hand to hold his face — to cover his eyes — and inhales so heavy it shakes through him like convulsions.

Oliver’s forced himself to look back — it’s the closest thing to support that he can think of right now — though he feels each of Shimon’s shuddered breaths across his eyes like a blinding flash.

It takes what seems like centuries for Shimon’s breathing to steady; and, even then, it hardly does. Still tense from head to toe, the older hunter takes a strong fistful of his hair, holding his palm against his forehead, forcing himself to breathe slow and steady...

But calm never comes.

It doesn’t.

It probably never will...

So Shimon just... continues. “I’ll...” Tries to, at least. He swallows hard. “No matter how hard I try, I can _never_ get the image of those... dead blue eyes out of my mind.” Pause. Inhale. Exhale. He looks farther away. “It’s been... _years_ since it happened. Years and years and years and years, but... I still see it sometimes. In dreams, like some romanticised nightmare cliché, or even just in the sky on clear days... I remember it all, and I _regret_ it all, and I _fucking hate_ myself for it. I... I was never able to forgive myself, and I still can’t, and I just...” Another pause. Another inhale. Another exhale. Then, finally, he loosens his grip on his hair, and lets his hand fall back to the bureau’s surface He laces his fingers gently in front of him. He sniffles, and he shifts his weight, and then, “I... had _one_ _fucking job_ in life, and that was to take care of him,” he says. “My one responsibility, and I failed at it spectacularly. I... I raised him like a son, and then just... just let him _die_ like a _fucking_ coward. And... and now...”

_And now we’re having a baby..._

But Oliver doesn’t say that thought out loud.

He knows that it’s a thought the two share in this moment, after all.

It doesn’t need to be said, because it’s already been understood.

After far too long standing still and breathing heavy, Shimon runs his fingers through his hair once more, pulling the thick locks away from his eyes, and when he finally — _finally_ — looks back over at Oliver, the Christmas Gelert sees something in the older hunter’s eyes that he never thought he’d see:

Tears.

“I’m so scared, Oliver.”

Silence.

They both look away from each other in unison.

Well... this is _far_ from what Oliver was expecting when he had first started worrying about the topic. Shimon has _never_ mentioned this before. _Ever_. Oliver had _absolutely_ no idea. It’s almost as if Shimon had been hiding this from Oliver all this time, but...

Well, once Oliver thinks about it a bit harder, he comes to realise that... no, no, Shimon wasn’t hiding this from _him_...

He was hiding it from _himself_.

This time, when Shimon continues talking, it’s obvious that the words are said more to himself than anyone else. “What if something happens to the baby...” he half-whispers down at his once again laced fingers. “What if I let it happen again...”

Oliver’s back is still an achy mess, now worsened by the stress... but he forces himself to stand.

And Shimon just keeps muttering under his breath. “I just... I can’t let anything like that happen again, Ollie,” he mumbles. “But... I don’t know if I’m strong enough. What... what if I just panic again? What if I do something wrong? What if... I just... I just don’t want this baby to... to end up, like...”

Shimon is then suddenly aware of Oliver’s arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders.

He didn’t even hear him approach — he was too deafened by his own thoughts.

But Oliver’s next words ring loud and clear:

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Then, once again, there is silence.

And, even though Shimon doesn’t believe him in the slightest...

He still eagerly turns and lifts his arms to pull Oliver into a tight embrace.

The Christmas Gelert breathes deep against the crook of Shimon’s neck, gently tangling his chestnut hair between his soothingly cool fingertips.

What’s worst right now is that it feels like everything Oliver can think to say to offer some sort of comfort in this moment is _wrong_. Everything could sound negative, or could be countered, or could be taken as an insult, or a myriad of other things... but he feels like he needs to say _something_.

The problem is that he _knows_ there’s nothing he could say that would ease the older hunter of these thoughts from his past. They’ve sat there festering for far too long. It’s obvious that they’re a core part of him now.

But still... Shimon has obviously changed a _lot_ since then.

Despite everything he’s gone through, he has.

And that, honestly, is so admirable to Oliver.

And also...

“You’re one of the bravest people I know, Shimon,” Oliver finally decides to say, hoping that the statement is neutral and genuine enough to not sting, “and... I know you’ll be an amazing father.”

And Shimon isn’t sure what to say.

But, honestly... neither of them do. In fact, it feels like... this is the end of the conversation. That’s all there was to it. And, the strangest thing is... Well, despite the tightness in both of their throats, and despite the fact that they’re both on the brink of tears, and despite the fact that there’s so much obvious misery in the air in this moment, they both feel... better, actually. Relieved, even. Oliver is both glad to know that his worries of Shimon regretting the decision to be in his child’s life have been laid to rest, and also that Shimon trusts him enough to show all of this vulnerability — to voice something that he clearly has been wanted to keep away from everyone, _including_ himself. At the same time, too, something about the mere fact that Oliver now knows about Shimon’s painful past is making the older hunter feel... calmer. The fact that Oliver knows of his past failures, but doesn’t mistrust him for them. The fact that he thinks no less of him. The fact that... he still loves him.

And, you know, come to think of it...

Shimon loves Oliver, too.

He really, really does.

Eventually — _finally_ — both of the hunters’ breathing steadies until they simply hold each other like young lovers, gently swaying in each other’s arms to the tune of nothing but their own solace in this moment. They’re just glad that the air is clearing itself. They’re glad that they’ve both voiced and satiated their concerns.

But... well, now what?

There’s really nothing left to say now that they’re both content...

And it’s really not in _either_ of their natures to let something like this sit in the air for too long once it’s been resolved...

... But it’s _less_ so in Shimon’s nature.

After a few more sweet seconds, Oliver feels the other hunter’s hand leave his back, then he’s suddenly aware of the half-eaten plate of lemon cake that’s being presented to him from under his nose. “Eating for two, right?” Shimon breathes against Oliver’s hair, loosening his grip on the slightly shorter hunter’s shoulders, the smile that paints his muzzle clearly audible in his tone.

Shimon can’t see, but he _knows_ that Oliver is rolling his eyes.

Still, the younger hunter lets go of Shimon’s back, then unhesitatingly snatches the plate from his hands — he really _was_ craving that cake... — turning back around in the same aggressively fluid motion. He takes Shimon by the hand and gently drags him back to the bed with an angrily muttered, “My back is _fucking_ killing me.”

“You’re already dead, dear.”

Well, sounds like Shimon is finally finding his sass again.

Unfortunately.


End file.
